


Parody of Illusions

by Imperium



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 13:31:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18941989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperium/pseuds/Imperium
Summary: In his dreams, Steve sees Tony sitting in the Hydra Supreme's lap wearing nothing but a red thong, laughing at Steve's stupidity.





	Parody of Illusions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rhee, Ross, Ilo and SilvernStars for the beta. You guys are absolute champions.

Steve shuffles to his feet with a hand on the bedside table. Obviously, it _immediately_ has to tip over, and Steve's boxes of takeout spill on the floor with a fateful kind of _splat_ that food does when people have no time to clean up. 

Honestly! That was just, so,-typical really. It kept in line with how everything else in his life was going on; and the food,-the food seems to gotten just about everywhere. From the bed to the carpet, to even the _fucking_ walls, and Steve should _really_ not have bothered with waking up this morning at all. 

He sags in defeat, casting a look at his bed companion. A dark haired, grey eyed man - boy really, he'd met in a bar the previous night. Mercifully, he remains asleep. He looks back at the takeout soiled floor, the carpet a lurid red color from the food.

_Steve really really shouldn’t._

He stands up, tip toeing around the bed, picking his scattered clothing up, and throwing one last guilty look at the man,- Max? Matt? something like that; and shuts the door behind him quietly - at least sparring him the jarring corridor light, If not having to clean as soon as he woke up.

He sneaks down the floor, consciously not walking too close to the walls,  
  
_It's suspicious if you walk by the walls. Walk straight, chest up,- walk in the middle of the corridor, and keep your strides even. No one will question whether or not you ought to be there._  
  
He shakes his head. He had the Hydra Supreme's memories. Kobik hadn't defaulted in the details of his _training._ If it wasn't so horrifying; he'd be impressed by the work. His feet go _thump thump_ clumsily loud in the silence. He ignores the sleepy, mildly annoyed looks he receives from the general early-morning populace, milling around before the day begins in earnest, and pushes the clear glass door open.

Outside, the air is new-day fresh, the dew clings to the leaves, and a large snail crawls sleepily down the driveway. The sky is grey and dreary,- but that speaks more for the dawn breaking over the horizon rather than rain. Usually, Steve would have stopped. He would have stopped and wished for an easel and some paint. He'd have stopped to greet the early morning patrons.  
  
_'How are you?' 'Yes. I'm great too!' 'Its a lovely day is it not?' 'Yes, Yes it is.'_  
  
_It_ is honestly not worth the effort.  
  
Steve moves past it without a glance, crosses the road and walks into the dingy motel across the street that had been his home for the past week and a half. Taking two stairs at a time, he swipes his card on the door. His boots creak ominously on the floorboard as he walks in.

He flings the bike keys on the bed. This, was Steve's home; His home smells of cigarette smoke, sweat, booze and sex. It's supposed to smell of Jarvis' cookies, and be filled with the team's banter. But that's the home of Captain America. Who lived amongst heroes and legends, and could share in their talks and lead with an example. This is _Steve's_ home. And Steve's home is nothing but violence, and abandonment. Steve's home is his Father beating his mother until she was blue. Steve's home was _Tony._ Tony crawling away from Steve in a hotel exactly like this, sobbing that he couldn't help it. Sniping that Steve should beat him up and that he wouldn't, _couldn't_ defend himself from him. 

What was it that Steve had done then?  
  
_AAh! Yes,_  
  
He'd called him handsome.  
  
Seventy points to Captain Obvious  
  
The walls are aligned with hairline fractures. There is some suspicious looking mould growing near his window and his tap continues to drink into the dirty sink ostensibly.

Steve _could_ afford better accommodations, Tony had ensured that. But taking advantage of Tony's kindness _again_ left a bitter taste in his mouth. Steve shakes his head and shoves Tony out of his mind. 

Steve should,- Steve should probably clean. He surveys the room, The discarded takeout boxes, the dirty clothing littering the floor, the empty beer bottles lying morosely on the ground, and tries to quell the rapid tide of rising disgust.

Maybe a shower first. Cleaning seemed too Herculean, yet.

He flings his phone on the bed, strips hurriedly,  in a rush to get into the bathroom and get clean. In a rush to drown out the scent of stale beer and sex with the chemical scent of bad motel soap. He pulls back the heavy plastic curtain, and jumps into the shower, cold water and all.

The water beats down into his back, harsh and unforgiving. It's painful, and jarring and so _so_ cold, that Steve jerks, struggling to _breathe_ for a second. _Oh God! Not Again!_ He fumbles with the taps, this was just being stupid. He should jump out of the shower and wait it out, and yet.

Yet.

He leaves the taps be, and the water warms in slow increments, slower than the snail that morning and Steve _sags,_ boneless. He tries to empty his mind like he had been taught repeatedly, and Steve had _sure_ practiced. It was just meditation really. Meditation with beats - a time tested method to come down from a panic attack.

_Inhale. Hold your breath for thirty seconds, exhale slowly._

_Inhale. Hold your breath for thirty seconds, exhale slowly._

_Inhale. Hold your breath for thirty seconds, exhale slowly._

He feels slower on the uptake than usual, and the memories of people bowing to him and calling him _Supreme Leader_ remain entrenched in the forefront of his mind obstinately. 

He breathes, water dripping into his eyes, curling his palms into fists over the shower walls. He blows air out through his mouth.

_Inhale. Hold your breath for thirty seconds, exhale slowly._

Finally. Finally. His heartbeat slows.

And _slows_. One perk of being a supersoldier, he supposes, is that he can actually _hear_ his heart rate slowing, coming back down to normal. Its more comforting than he would like to admit.

The feeling of being trapped, and the all consuming terror; well,- it doesn't _go away_ , but it does take a temporary backseat.

He sighs in relief, uncurling his hands - his fingertips leaving bloodied crescents on his palms. They smear as he pulls back.

He closes his eyes. Which is Mistake No. 4 since he'd woken up that morning.

Rick Jones falling, Natasha dying, Tony - blood splattered, and broken in Spiderman's arms. Steve had done that.

_People could say what they wanted. Cosmic Cube! Power of the world, Steve. It wasn't on you._

It does something to his chest, sharp nagging pains, like broken faith and a lost optimism filled with things like hope, and _love._

He want to cry. He wants someone to hit him till he bleeds.

The bitter petty part of him, that is more injured pride, and a crawling spitting wild thing - is still just so, _angry_ that no one had noticed that it wasn’t him.

He knows. Knows it because of this apparent _effect_ he has on people. He hiccups a sob. 

Tony would be proud. The smug bastard. He _had_ warned Steve a million times over about it, after all.

And that was ofcourse, the other thing.  
  
“I'd like to think you would have been proud” the Hydra Supreme had said, from the videos a shamefaced SHIELD agent had given him. The Hydra Supreme,- who'd apparently been more vocal about Steve's feelings than Steve had _ever_ been, all the while considering it a weakness. "He Loved You" he'd said. Steve shouldn't hurt so much that was what his counterpart had chosen to reveal to Tony. 

There were so many things he could've said instead. 'He always considered you his home.' 'He trusted you with a ferocity that would surprise you.' 'He was so protective of you, that he could hardly _function_ at times,-' But no. It had been that. Another SteveandTony precious memory. Gone with the Wind.

Every shameful thing the monster had told his best friend is entrenched in his mind. If Tony were here, he'd say something like, it being similar to his most basic code- the most primal of memories, thoughts and actions. 

Here's how to breathe. Here's how to speak. Here's how to chew, Here's how to swallow _after_ your chew.

Here, you're in love with a liar you can never trust.

Here, the liar is terrified of you because that has been _three times_ in your acquaintance that you've tried to kill him; and only one of those times was it mind control.

He assumes murder is not something super-heroes do.

He could talk to Tony about that; or any of his super smart friends. 

'Here is a ten-step guide to deal with your conscience after committing genocide'

_Ha! Ha! Ha! Hilarious._

There was nothing about this that wasn't overwhelming and suffocating. He'd suddenly remember just _what he had done_ , and his body would curl, the air around him would feel recycled and stifling.

He hates it. None of this was had been _easy,_ of course _._ But he just wishes that someone would blame him for it.

'But..but Cap, you were been mind-controlled! It isn't your fault!' he can almost _hear_ Peter's voice. Steve considers telling that to the families of the people he'd killed, and wouldn't _that_ be a cheery conversation? _'Hello. Yes. This is Captain America? Yes. I heard your son died while playing in the park on January the 23rd? I'm sorry- I was mind controlled. Its Hydra's fault really._

Yes. That would go by swimmingly. 

Steve isn't unaware of things, not like some smart smart people would like to think he is.

Things are simple now. The general populace hates him. Steve hates himself more, and his Friends seem utterly convinced that tip-toeing around him was helpful.

Jessica had been dragged kicking and screaming through hell when it'd been discovered that her counterpart was a skrull.

Tony'd been crucified for the war.

However, everyone seems all too eager to absolve Steve of all of his sins. Steve wishes someone would just _punish_ him. Even Tony seems all too eager to forget anything had ever happened. In spite of all that Steve had done to him. Although, he would only talk to Steve over the phone. There was probably something to that, if Steve had the energy to spare, he'd worry.

Tony was the one person Steve had wanted around him after it all. Now they were both fallen from grace.

Captain America and Iron Man. The Soldier and the Knight. The Man and the Machine. The Fool and the Alcoholic. 

They'd lost each other- somewhere along the way.

Before, when Steve had been young, in _love_ , and stupid; One of his favorite things to dream about had been an idea, a thought, a what-if, he'd been alone with Iron Man when his secret identity had been revealed. Tony grinning at him sheepishly in the Ferrari red thong that did little to reduce his near exotic appeal. In his dreams, Steve would draw Tony in with a finger on the string. Tony would come to him, pliant, his eyes half lidded, the electric blue of them glittering in the dark. He'd be so soft, and Steve would be so careful. In his dreams Steve would take off the thong and Tony would want him to.

In reality, he only has bruise littered golden skin shying away from his touch, and an all too awake Tony talking to Steve like he had all but a restraining order on him.

“Give him time” Carol had said, looking down; war and all, they'd both made up pretty easy. Fifteen phone calls, hundred texts, and Carol having family problems had put them both firmly back together. Thicker and tighter than _ever_ before.

He wondered what he was doing wrong.

It was foolish thinking that had led Steve to believe that things could just go back to normal.  

He chokes and covers his mouth with a hand that is no longer bloodied. His knees buckle. He crumples, letting himself fall for a second, and then -

His phone rings, loud, with an obnoxiously happy tune that Steve was pretty sure he hadn't set. He gasps, and struggles to his feet. He runs a hand through his face, and fights for his breath.  

Grabbing a stiff towel, he wraps it around his waist, and barges out of the shower. Tony smiles at him cheerfully, milkshake in his hand. Some of the milkshake is gathered in the corner of his mouth, and a pink tongue reaches out to lick at it. His eyes are shining and he leans trustingly on Steve. He is so happy, and he isn't even real. It had been _years_ since Tony had smiled like that.

The phone falls silent, and Steve had missed Tony's call.

Steve hurriedly puts his clothes back on and grabs his phone. The tiny icon of Tony's face shines in Steve's notification bar, and Steve _wants_ so badly, it _aches._

He checks out of the room.

Much later, riding the bike, Steve wonders if Tony left a message.

‐---

Steve fucks into whatsherface harshly. Should he have taken some effort to learn her name? _Probably_. Does he care? Not even a little.

She's warm, and she's soft and she wants to use Steve for some pleasure, she has no more care for him than he does for her. That would make him feel less guilty, if he'd felt guilty at all in the first place. Maybe the whole clinical lack of emotion and investment, care-only-going-so-far-as-to-achieve-goals thing would hurt, but the feeling of people using him is nothing new at this point. He's used to it. She gasps and twists and _writhes_ on the sheets, completely gone. He pulls away when she cums, moaning wantonly, her body rising of the bed and nearly bending in half.  

Steve settles on his knees and waits, as she gasps and pants for breath. Waits, as her breasts heave attractively, red hair spilling over the pillows like a halo. Steve waits until he is sure she's okay, and then plops himself on the bed next to her, forcing a grin as she beams up at him, and runs a fond finger through his cheek. He cups her hand in his, mostly to stop the uncomfortable scratching and presses a kiss to her palm. Her eyes crinkle. She looks, _charmed._

“That was great honey,” she says as soon as she catches her breath; Steve is simultaneously upset and grateful that she hadn't noticed that Steve hadn't cum. She gasps for breath once, and once more before smiling widely, sitting back up.

“I'm really sorry, but I truly _do_ need to go” she even sounds apologetic. Steve suddenly feels guilty. She had been nothing but nice and kind to Steve; and Steve hadn't even bothered learning her name! He looks at her, rosy cheeks and white teeth. She's so very _civilian_. She probably had a lovely life, maybe even a child or two. Steve is still half hard under the blankets and suddenly he is _desperate_ for her to leave. This random woman and her laughing eyes, and movie star exposition. He gets up to usher her out.

She looks startled at Steve's sudden eagerness, and pulls her clothes on in rapid motions, quick and jerky, like she was in a hurry, or scared. Steve stops to pick her stilettos by the door, and offers it to her. She takes it and sends him an unsure smile. Steve smiles back at her weakly. Her face softens from the confusion to mild concern. She looks at him assessing, and then her eyes widen. She nods jerkily, and scampers out of the room. 

He wonders what he did that could have frightened her so.

He supposes it doesn't matter, as she doesn’t come back. It feels like another failure above a list of failures. Never mind that Steve had _wanted_ her to leave. 

Somehow some _things_ were always more important to the people that he cared about, more important than anyone else.

Steve shakes his head. They had killed each over it. It was over. And Steve had no _right_ to be angry with Tony about anything.

He slouches and stumbles back into the bed, burying his face on the pillow. It does little to curb his erection and he is now achingly hard. He sighs and snakes a hand under the blanket, and runs a thumb over the head of his cock slowly, returning to his all time favourite fantasies.

Tony laughing as Steve corners him in the lab, his laughter fading into moans as they move against each other in perfect sync on one of Tony's many tables. Tony grease stained, as Steve tries to touch every inch of him all at once. Steve bends down to run his fingers through Tony's lips, Tony sucks Steve's fingers in, eyes glinting in mischief and adoration. Steve feels his breath leaving him in a laugh. Sex with Tony was just so much _fun._ He looks up at one of Tony's shiny screens, in which they're both reflected in blurry clarity. Tony's writhing looks almost pornographic (or better in Steve's private opinion. He looks like such a _whore;_ wanton, naked and legs spread _so_ wide. All Steve's.), Steve runs a fond hand through his hair. Tony whines and Steve obligingly flicks a nipple. Tony bucks and trembles in response. 

Steve returns his gaze to the fascinating image the two of them make on the screen. Steve makes his own kind of imposing figure, dressed in green, with the hydra insignia printed proudly on his helmet. It felt good, it felt _right._ He shifts his grip, holding Tony down with one hand and moves faster. Tony's laughs turn into sharp high pitched cries, then screams he tries stiffle and finally sobs as Steve doesn't stop. 

Steve jerks and cums.

\-----

Tony is laughing again, Steve simply cannot get enough of it. Tony had hardly ever laughed since the first time Steve and Tony had gone to war against each other. Spending most of his time averting the next new disaster, never having a moment to just stop and live.

Tony is sitting on the antique dinner table, with his legs hanging off the edge, as Steve brings out a bottle of champagne. He smiles as Steve pours the champagne into an ornate flute, raising an appreciative brow at it. Steve bends down just-a-bit and kisses Tony's forehead.

“To ruling the world” Steve says and raises his glass to Tony, who clinks it against his own smartly before raising it and taking a drink. They place their glasses on the table as Steve lifts Tony with a hand under his thighs, Tony laughs joyously as Steve takes him to bed. He is so perfect like this. Malleable and _soft_ to whatever Steve needs, anything Steve needs. It's a heady sense of power, and the rush leaves Steve feeling dizzy, and desperate for more. More of those desperate half glances Tony would throw at him, or those soft whimpering cries he made when Steve made love to him slowly in their huge silk bed. 

It was almost a privilege. To hold _Iron Man_ in his arms like that. Steve would never let anything come between them, ever again.

In reality, Steve sobs as he huddles in the corner of his room.

\-----

Tony is explaining something about the armour with elaborate gestures. He grabs Steve's hand and drags him deeper into the lab, still talking a mile a minute. Steve interrupts Tony because _can’t he see? That's not going to work_.

He turns around to look at Steve, eyes wide. Steve's own lips spread in a wide cocksure grin. _Can't you see Tony ? Can you see it now ?_

Tony simply glows. His eyes are tender as he presses a kiss to Steve's knuckles. The armours would be even better now, with Steve's own input.

Steve butts the cigarette out against his wrist.

\-----

His therapist with her too kind eyes tells him that he may be projecting his insecurities onto Tony. Steve sits in the stupidly cozy room with the unobtrusive bland colors which were no doubt supposed to be comforting; and can only think of his nightmares. He can only think of Tony wiping his memories and dancing around with Strange. They'd gotten even closer now. Tony and Strange. Not to mention _Doom,_ or rather, 'Victor', was it? he can only think of how much Tony would have laughed at him. 

How could he hope to explain the complexities of his relationship with Tony to her? To the naked eye, their relationship probably defined unhealthy. Steve still wasn't sure it it wasn't.

He doesn't open his mouth for the rest of the session. Or any session afterward.

\-----

Steve isn't stupid. He knows what is real and what isn't. Vegas doesn't exist. That is real. He knows the fear of the Illuminati reassembling wasn't real. (Tony hadn't even apologised) but Steve did _know_ Tony, the parts that mattered, at the very least.

Tony was the one who stayed up all night when Steve wanted to talk to him, Tony was the one who Steve let win because he actually _liked_ CSI more than Grey's Anatomy. Tony indulged Steve whenever Steve was upset. He _could_ talk to Tony. He knows that. Tony would be sympathetic, kind even, and he'd steady Steve's hands for a little while, just by holding them really tight.

But Steve _simply_ doesn't know. Doesn't know which ones of his nightmares were real and which ones weren't. If Tony had fallen of the wagon, they _all_ would have known. But Steve had seen the bruises on his skin. Heard the white faced assessment of Tony's doctors. 

Steve wonders how his life had come to this _._ How he'd come to the point, where he could walk up to his best friend, and ask him if Steve had _raped_ him, and that would be something not terribly out of the ordinary. Walk up and ask him _‘What the hell happened, Tony? I'm terrified, I don't remember, and no one tells me anything’_. 

He thinks of how terrified Tony must have been when he'd woken up with no memories. How alone.

Steve deserves this. Steve deserves much worse.

Their relationship had already been hanging by the string, both of them holding onto to each other with their fingertips, and Steve is terrified at the thought of damaging it more. Because one day, one day - they wouldn't be able to go back, and Steve has _no_ _idea_ what he'd do then.

He doesn't  tell Tony that over their rare phone calls. Tony had always felt that he'd had to rip his own heart out to save Steve's.

And Steve has had enough of being a burden on everyone.

\------

The gravel on the road stretches for miles ahead of him, his bike jerks and groans - overworked.

He feels off-kilter, his body feels too small, and he's suffocating, buried in a too small place. The guilt is a constant swooping sensation in his gut. Churning, and whipping across his chest in sharp spasms, making him feel bereft and exhausted when its done.

Sometimes, Steve had good days. He'd go to sleep with a small self motivating speech to himself, and wake up optimistic.

However, it seems to get harder and harder everyday, when the simplest thing can set him off.

He is _exhausted_ , he is almost constantly worried, he looks behind his shoulder a million times over and there's nothing. 

_Control Issues. Trust Issues. Paranoia. Manic Behaviour. Tell me Tony, when was the last time you had a drink?_

There's nothing behind, and nothing beyond. It feels like the perfect analogy to his life.

His bike sputters and gives a dying scream.

He admits defeat before re-routing to the nearest roadway motel. It's slightly better than the usual accommodations Steve favoured, but Steve doesn't want to risk riding his bike until he finds a cheaper place.

He walks into the room, and methodically places his wallet, keys and dog tags on the table before taking to the shower.

When Steve sleeps, he dreams, as always these days of Tony. Tony is soft and sleepwarm next to him. Bruises litter his skin, some of the deeper ones bleeding sluggishly. Steve wonders if he'd been drugged. It should be very uncomfortable to sleep like that.

Steve gets up to fetch bandages and disinfectant. He moves Tony's body as he cleans and bandages the deeper cuts turning him over to get his back, but leaves the purpling bruises alone. Tony doesn't wake up.

Steve sighs and leaves him be. He had more important things to do than catering to Tony Stark's endless needs.

\----- 

Steve is in the road again when he hears the high pitched whine of the repulsors above him. He jerks to a stop immediately. Not sure if it was Tony or something else, Tony had his armor taken over more than once, and apparently Dr. Doom had run around as Iron Man for a bit. His eyes burn with the thought _,_ because _How dare Doom?_ Tony had had a lot of dreams about the legacies he'd leave behind. Doom hadn't been one of them. 

The armour opens and Tony steps out; graceful, if slightly wobbly. Steve is relieved. The world needed at least one of them up and running. He takes his helmet off and turns off the engine, walking forward.

Tony grins at him sheepishly. His eyes are exhausted, but he looks healthy. He looks good, and Steve tells him so.

Now Tony grins. He turns around and waves the armour away. Simultaneously putting both his back to Steve and making his only source of protection leave. Steve aches at it. There is still a part ofTony that trusts in Steve absolutely, in spite of everything.

Tony turns back to Steve, His eyes sliding from Steve's messy hair, the bags under his eyes, and probably the sickly pallor of his skin. He looks stricken, but when his eyes meet Steve, they are tender. Steve is unworthy of it.

“Hey” he draws it out, softly, slowly. Like he is preparing what he needs to say.

"You came for me." Steve says, trying to spare him the energy. 

Tony nods, "I'll always come for you" he says, as though it was obvious, wringing his hands a little nervously.

In the end, it is about as anti-climactic as it can be, as Tony, after a decisive node to himself, just walks forward and hugs Steve, running warm well worked hands through Steve's hair in gentle consolatory motions. “Steve” he says softly, testing the name out. And when Steve stands stiffly, Tony pulls Steve closer, and nuzzles his nose against Steve's throat. Tony smells of metal, expensive cologne, and something that always felt like the mansion.

"Winghead" he needles, rubbing against Steve like an over eager puppy. Like if he'd tried hard enough Tony's own _zen_ would just seep into Steve through all the layers of separation between them. 

Tony mumbles his name again, face hidden in Steve's throat, tugging at the zipper of his stupid old biker jacket.

Its,- _sweet_.

Even after all these years, no one calls him Winghead like Tony does.

He hugs Tony back, locking his wrists together over the soft dip of his spine. The constant teeth grinding fear and grief fading to almost silence, he could never have peace ( _Steve doesn't deserve peace)_ but he could have this. For a second, Steve let's himself sag against Tony. 

Realistically, Steve knows it's stupid. In a few months time, one of them would probably get mind controlled. Or the world would end and Steve and Tony would have a huge fight that left Steve's fists aching to punch someone, and Tony brain-tired with guilt, and mouth twisted in the apologies he tried not to mean, because Tony would _know_ that they had to do that _one thing_ Steve never approved of to win, and Steve would struggle to keep his thoughts and priorities in order.

But, Steve wouldn't really have it any other way.

For Tony, Steve would go through everything a million times over. He sometimes struggles to even understand it. How it was even possible to love so unselfishly, so instinctually, so ferociously.

He tightens his grip around Tony's body, holding Tony up as much as Tony is holding _him_. Tony nuzzles into him, had it been anyone else, Steve might have thought it awkward; but any hints of shyness or discomfort he might have felt had been long since burnt out the first time they had seen each other naked.

He even grins a bit as tears sting his eyes.

Inhaling the smell of _home_ that generally permeated around Tony, Steve breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I'll post a fic that'll actually be complete with a satisfactory solution. 
> 
> That day is not today.


End file.
